


Not Alone

by Three_Oaks



Series: Oaksy's Prompt Game [24]
Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Benji is not coping well, Caring Ethan, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Post-Kashmir, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:53:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Three_Oaks/pseuds/Three_Oaks
Summary: Benji is happy. Lane has been caught, again, the bombs haven't exploded. Ethan is alive. And if Benji isn't exactly fine, he can deal with it alone. He has to deal with it alone.
Relationships: Benji Dunn/Ethan Hunt
Series: Oaksy's Prompt Game [24]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676299
Comments: 9
Kudos: 72





	Not Alone

Benji was happy. Their mission had succeeded, they had stopped the bombs from going off, they had caught Lane again. Most of all, Ethan was alive. Not unharmed, because when had he ever been? But alive, alive enough to smile at Julia and Ilsa and laugh at his stupid joke. 

Benji looked at him one last time, and left the tent. Ethan didn't need to be bothered. Not by him.

He could deal with it on his own. Deal with the pain that was drowning him every moment, submerging everything else until the only thing left was the white-hot agony around his neck, making him wish Ilsa had been just a little slower. At least then, he would be hurting less. Deal with the terror constricting his brain, blurring the faces of everyone around him, making their voices echo through the mist before reaching him, distorted. Ilsa had asked him how he was feeling. He'd heard himself say he was fine. He still wasn't certain that he was alive, that every second passing by wasn't an illusion created by his dying brain, chemical misfires flashing through his neurons before the inevitable end. 

He sat all night on his bed, staring at the fabric wall of the tent, not daring to close his eyes. 

"Benji? Ethan asked if he could speak to you," Luther asked from outside, a few hours after dawn, not bothering to come in. He pretended not to hear. 

He couldn't see Ethan, not now. The few minutes by his bedside the day before had consumed all the strength he had left. How could he go to him, and let him see? Ethan would probably worry, and he didn't need the added burden. Benji had already been enough of a burden. 

A tear dropped on his hand. He starred at it. A second, and a third, burning their way down his cheeks, through his beard. An immense pressure had built in his chest, suffocating him again. He couldn't breathe, couldn't bring his chest to move, his diaphragm to rise. His shoulders convulsed, moving back and forth in a parody of what breathing should be. Was he going to die? Was that an aftereffect of the hanging that Julia, in all her wisdom, hadn't foreseen? A sound escaped his lips. Low, keening, barely human. His ribs shook, and the sound broke for an instant. A sliver of air, not enough for the burning of his lungs to stop. A second one, then a third. He pressed his fists against his mouth, so hard his tongue was covered with the coppery taste of blood. The silence of his tent was filled by the noise of sobs he couldn't control, rippling through his chest like waves. 

He didn't know how long it lasted. At some point, he'd fallen onto the rough floor, curled up like a scared child on a stormy night. It felt like an eternity. He wept until his eyes were dry and his mind empty. His throat only hurt more, torn again by his pitiful crying. Who had ever said that crying made you feel better?

A soft knock on the metal pole of his tent. He laid himself on the bed face down, hoping it would hide how wrecked he must have looked. 

"Benji? It's me again."

Luther stepped in, and stopped when he saw Benji on the bed.

"Sorry. Were you still sleeping?"

" 's fine," he answered, wiping his eyes. 

"You don't look that well. You sure you're feeling ok? I can get Julia if you..."

"It's fine. Really." 

Luther recoiled a little. Benji hadn't meant to sound aggressive. He bit his tongue. Could he even mess up a simple chat like that?

"If you say so. But we're there if you need anything, don't forget it."

Benji felt guilt rise through him. He didn't deserve the warmth in Luther's voice, the promise of help he shouldn't even need, the friendship he'd never be good enough for. He was a fake. The only question was how long it would take them to notice. 

"Can I do anything?" Benji asked.

"Yes, actually. Ethan wants to see you, if you're feeling well enough."

"Is he alright?" he asked, too fast, his heart starting to thunder in his chest at the mere mention of Ethan. With fear, he realized. Fear of what?

"Better than yesterday, but he's not going to be climbing anything for a while."

There he was, wallowing in his own little problems, while Ethan had nearly died. He wanted to laugh, or puke.

He took a decision. That made him fill a little better, gave him something that grounded him.

"I'll go see him."

"Great. He'll be glad to see you, I think." 

Luther gave him a knowing smile that left Benji feeling stupid, out of the loop, and left.

On his way to the medical tent, he made his arrangements with the Indian army and the CIA.

Ethan was still lying in bed, his bruises worse than the day before. He smiled widely when he saw Benji, his eyes lighting up with something Benji knew he hadn't earned and didn't deserve.

Benji spoke before he could.

"I'm leaving."

Ethan's face fell, just for an instant, before he could get his smile back on, just a little less warm, less sincere. 

"Oh. Alright. Are you going back home?"

"To DC, yeah."

"When are you leaving?"

"In an hour. I'm taking the first CIA chopper out."

"Well, do you want to sit down until then? I hear there's decent coffee three tents over, maybe you can get a cup and..."

"I can't. I'm sorry. I need to go pack."

"Sorry. Of course."

Ethan looked away from him. Benji took the occasion, and turned to leave.

"Benji, wait!"

Ethan looked scared. For him, Benji realized. 

"Are you ok? Ilsa told me what happened, and..."

He'd been right to decide to leave. Ethan didn't need the extra stress, and he'd be better on his own. 

"I'm fine. Goodbye, Ethan. Take care of yourself."

He didn't look back.

***

A month. It took him a month of constant emails and daily calls to annoy the IMF supervisor into sending him back to the field. His throat nearly didn't hurt anymore, except in his dreams. He was starting to get used to them, too, and stopped keeping his gun in his bedside table after he'd woken up with it in his hand once too many. He wasn't sleeping much anyway. 

The first mission was a success. Five men dead, all Apostle allies and cronies, his target safely in the hands of the IMF. Or the CIA, or whoever was in charge now, ready to send that scum rot somewhere. 

He'd felt more alive than he had in a long time. 

He asked for more.

***

Six month later, and his first mission with Ethan and Luther again. He hadn't managed to find an excuse, not this time.

The mission itself was fine, like it always was with them. They made a good team, understanding what the other meant with just a glance, just a subtle frown. 

Benji had nearly been able to forget. 

In the evening, at the safehouse, when everything was calm and quiet and there was nothing to occupy Benji's roaring, twisting mind, Benji wished he could escape.

Ethan and Luther were in the kitchen, chatting over a shared meal. He'd lied, said he wasn't hungry, and retreated to his room. He knew he'd usually have joined them, joked and complained with them, grateful that he even was there. He'd have stared at Ethan, just a little, like a schoolboy with a crush, blushing when he was inevitably caught, Ethan flashing a small smile at him, as if they shared a secret. If they were alone, they would talk of everything and nothing, his childhood, or the last game he'd bought, certain that Ethan would scream at him to stop, that he was boring him out of his mind. But he never did, always listened to whatever Benji was telling like he couldn't get enough of it. And sometimes, Ethan would speak. He'd tell him how he felt about a mission, or speak about Julia, or his parents. In those moments, Benji had known he'd been the luckiest person in the planet. 

Not anymore. 

They were better without him.

Ethan was better without him.

***

A year, and he wasn't getting better. Or getting back. He was starting to accept that he never would, that Lane had ruined him. Or maybe he'd always been ruined. He'd come back from a mission late the night before, one of those mission Walker might have taken, back when he was at CIA. Not a rescue mission. The kind Ethan managed to avoid since he was at the IMF. The kind he thought he couldn't do, that he wouldn't do, on whatever moral principles he still had. Now, he found that he couldn't bring himself to care.

He splashed some cold water on his face, and looked at himself in the unforgiving blue neon light of the bare bathroom.

Would the man he was a year ago even recognize him now? 

He would, a voice whispered. He would, and he would hate him. 

Well, at least that was something they had in common. 

He checked his email, and smiled. He'd been approved for the next mission already. Too dangerous, the supervisor had said. He'd argued that he had one of the best success rate of the entire agency, after Ethan. Always after Ethan. It would be cheaper, he'd told them. One agent, one set of equipment, one flight. One coffin, if it came to it. He was better alone anyway. 

He knew that they were right. It wasn't a mission for one agent, or even for a team. 

It was why he'd picked it. One last mission.

He went back into the bedroom to pack.

***

The bomb had left a charred crater in the ground on which Benji was kneeling. 

He wiped the blood dripping in his eyes from the shrapnel cut just above his forehead, staring at his shaking hands, still holding the gun he'd just killed more people could remember with. Eight. Or was it nine? He threw the weapon in the dust.

He was alive.

He wasn't supposed to be. There had been no chance of him making it, no matter what he'd told the IMF. Not with all of his skills, not with the luck of the devil. 

And yet he was alive.

He didn't want to be. Didn't he? He didn't want to be scared, or angry anymore. He wanted to stop feeling the rope around his neck, every time he closed his eyes. He wanted to believe that Lane had left something of him. Anything.

He didn't want to be alone, either. 

Benji started to cry.

***

Twelve hours later, three at the hospital and the rest in a plane, and he was in front of Ethan's door. Before he could think of a reason to leave, he knocked.

"Benji?" Ethan said. 

"I'm sorry for dropping on you like that." This had been a mistake. He should never hace come there.

"Don't think about it. Come on in!"

They settled at the kitchen table, Ethan shoving a plate and a few pots away. 

"I'm sorry for bothering you," Benji said, looking down at the table.

"You're not bothering me. Do you want something to eat?"

He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Would he bother Ethan if he accepted? Well, he'd offered. And he didn't need to cook anything else. He nodded.

Ethan took out a plate, and filled it.

"It's pad thai. I think I finally got it right, this time," he said, smiling.

"Thank you."

Benji ate quietly. He wasn't used to feeling shy, at least not with Ethan, but he couldn't get any words out.

"Feeling any better?" Ethan asked, when he put his fork and knife across his empty plate. 

He did, he realized. It had been a while since he'd eaten anything that good, longer since he'd eaten with someone.

"Yes," he answered.

There was a moment of silence. Benji knew he had to say something, that Ethan was waiting to hear why he'd barged into his flat. That why he'd come there. But now, he found that he couldn't speak. He shouldn't have come. He was bothering Ethan, again. Ethan was a good agent, and a better man. Benji felt like he was soiling him, just by being there.

"I'm happy to see you, Benji."

Benji looked up at him across the table. The yellow light streaming from the lamp on the ceiling was reflecting in his eyes, making them shine. His hair was falling softly on his forehead, longer than they'd been the last time Benji had seen him. He was still smiling, but there was a tinge of sadness to it.

"I'll always be happy to see you."

Benji took his head into his hands.

"I... I need your help."

A sob escaped him. He started crying, unable to stop himself. Ethan got up, sat down in the chair next to him, and gently pulled him into his arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Benji repeated, into the crook of Ethan's neck.

"It's ok. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I don't know... I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You've been through so much, Benji."

"But I haven't! Not like you. I'm just... I'm not as strong as you."

"You're the strongest person I know." Ethan pulled away, and took his face into his hands. "Look at me, Benji. I've never had any doubts." 

Seeing the sincerity in Ethan's eyes only made Benji cry harder.

"I left you, and Luther, and everyone," he said, his voice roughened by the tears.

"It's alright. I'm the one who should be apologizing. You don't have to be alone, Benji."

Ethan took him into his arms again.

"You don't have to be alone," he repeated. "You don't deserve to be alone."

Benji believed him.

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I have not forgotten my many, many WIPs, I just wanted to write something to get back in my groove. I hope you enjoyed it anyway!


End file.
